


Soil and rain.

by Thefreakoutsideyourwindow



Series: Origin stories [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, mostly just hurt though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefreakoutsideyourwindow/pseuds/Thefreakoutsideyourwindow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drax is harvesting potatoes when he first hears it. Though he does not recognise it, it is a sound he will grow to hate. A heralding of his failures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soil and rain.

 

Drax is harvesting potatoes when he first hears it.

 

It is a low hum at first, one he does not currently recognize but will grow to hate until it consumes every fibre of his being. But, for now, it remains an irritating vibration that is all too willing to force him to lapse into another one of his perpetual migraines during the sun season and would cause him to fall behind on work once more. Continuing on, he ignores the sound, and will curse himself a thousand times over for his ignorance later.

 

At night, his daughter grows scared.

 

Except this time it seems more so than usual. Her ice blue eyes are wide and bright and all too focused on the ceiling above her, as if desperate to ignore the cause of her fear in spite of her favourite bedtime stories that have failed to usher her into sleep like usual.

 

Perturbed by this sudden change in demeanour, Drax sits himself on the edge of her bed, and asks, “Kamaria, what is it that you are afraid of? You know your mother and I will protect you from all harm.”

 

She shakes her head fervently, eyes more terrified than they were before as hers meet his, cool and calculating with the inklings of fear himself now, “But you can't stop that noise.” Then, as if a string had been cut, her head falls upon her pillow and the room goes quiet with the sound of her even breathing.

 

Concerned, but unwilling to part her from her sudden sleep that she was struggling to get earlier, Drax merely runs his fingers through her silvery hair, presses a gentle kiss upon her forehead, and closes her bedroom door quietly on his way out.

 

He will wish he asked more.

 

In the living area his wife grows worried, no longer pondering over the rising statistics of their harvest efforts but instead of the ever growing noise in the background, always there, always waiting. It has felt like an eternity under its scrutiny for her. For Drax, it has only felt like a day.

 

“Hovat, what is it that troubles you?” He asks, and her fretting stills and she goes quiet, staring out of the window to their expansive farm, to everyone's expansive farms, and she replies,

 

“Kamaria.”

 

“Surely she would not pester you, she has been working-”

 

She holds up a hand to cut him off and he lets her, irritated at the idea of their sweet daughter causing trouble but wanting to understand what was wrong. Hovat does not worry, Hovat does not fret. Hovat is strong and independent and above all loves their daughter and never spoke ill of her.

 

“It is not that she is troubling me, Drax,” She looks at him when she says his name and he sees now that his wife who has feared little in all of her life grows fearful now, “It is that I am worried for her. She has been silent ever since the noise started and when she finished in the fields, all she did was stand there and stare into the sky.”

 

She leaves out the implications of waiting for something, of potential enemies, of danger. But Drax understands well enough, and it will do them no good to stand here and squabble, tired. So instead, he guides her up to bed and, in a rare moment of submission, Hovat lets herself be led and falls asleep with little more than a worried sigh. Alone as he ever could be here, Drax looks out of their bedroom window, ears straining and catching on the hum that has slowly grown louder over the course of the day. And dread takes a root in his stomach and grows overnight.

 

And in the morning it blooms.

 

The noise is louder now, if not ever present, and Drax and many other farmers are unable to ignore it until it merely becomes background noise. The noise that was once in the background has stepped into the forefront of everybody's minds. All of the farmers come together in one large group, worried murmurs cascading over each other as they bicker over what the sound could be. Unwillingly, Drax is drawn into the conversation. The argument lasts for an hour before a piercing shriek rings throughout the field and Drax turns in horror to see his beloved daughter staring up at the sky with the same expression he wears, arm extended and shaking, finger poised and pointing and the source of her terror.

 

“Necrocraft.”

 

The word is spat like a cardinal sin, a deep rumble that Drax realises has come from him as he looks to where she is pointing as more join it in a swarm. Like a gunshot people break into action, the farmers screaming to their families, friends, neighbours, anyone nearby to get away as fast as they can. Drax is picking up Kamaria before he realises it and nearly crashes through their front door were it not for Hovat opening it in the nick of time.

 

“Drax? What's-”

 

This time she is cut off by his voice, adrenaline overcoming him as he packs a bag filled with food and other necessities and places it on his crying daughter's back. “Necrocraft, I'm not certain how many, a squadron at least. You need to go, get Kamaria to-”

 

“I will fight beside you,” Hovat counters, her voice rising in anger and determination and she suddenly seems every bit her age, “I will not sit idly by while-”

 

“ _ **Hovat!”**_ Drax can count the number of times he has raised his voice against his wife on a single hand. But now is not a time he will allow exceptions, now is not a moment where he can afford to argue, where he can avoid the possibility of them both dying. “I know you are strong, we both fought beside each other in the civil war and we have the tattoos to prove it, but Kamaria cannot travel by herself and your own blades broke long ago, mine would not suit your skill.”

 

There is a moment of tense silence where they stare each other down, his slight difference in height meaning nothing in comparison to her fierce will. But this, like many other things, is shattered by the broken and fearful whisper from Kamaria. “Th-they're here.” she stammers, her voice hitching on a half formed sob.

 

And, true enough, fleets of Kree and Chitauri are marching through their fields, through their wheat and corn and potatoes as they spill out from the source of the noise, a dark and twisted mother ship looking akin to that of a double helix DNA strand he had studied from an animal long ago in school. A fire spreads through the fields as Necrocraft shoot down anything and everything within sight, the flames consuming every scrap and morsel that is left in the wake of their destruction.

 

Needing no further prompting, Hovat takes Kamaria's hand and the sharpest kitchen knife she owns, looking at Drax with a myriad of emotions as she has one hand on the back door, ready to step out but hesitating. He looks back at her and, with a nod, all he says is “Go.” and she's off.

 

That will be the moment he will regret the most.

 

With his wife and child out of immediate danger, Drax makes his way to the workshop, picking up his old blades with a mix of contempt and reverence at the number of lives they have taken but also the lives they have saved. He composes himself for a moment, having little time to do so, and with a nod in the general direction of his home, _their_ home, he joins the farmers turned warriors once more.

 

And he fights.

 

* * *

 

 

It is raining.

 

Though it is unusual for the current time of the year, it is certainly not the worst thing to happen today and, if not much else, it is helping to put out the fires which the Necrocraft have caused. Though they may have prevented total destruction, he sees little else other than that.

 

Charred remains of buildings are a hair's breadth from collapsing in on themselves and husks of similar natures lie stiff on the ground, Drax refusing to look at them for too long lest the reality of the fact that these are the remains of his kinsmen lying on the ground. The only thing that keeps him from weeping is the knowledge that they shall get a proper burial soon. Fertile fields are turned empty and grey, mud mixing with the slick blood of fallen Kree and Chitauri of Ronan's army, though the coward himself in nowhere to be seen. Around him, few of his fellows remain standing, many of them collapsed on the ground from exhaustion or otherwise. All slick in blood that is either theirs or not or a mixture of both. All have fought. Many have died.

 

Seeing little point in standing around in what mere moments ago was a battlefield, Drax nods to his fellow comrades and starts making his way back home, hoping to collect supplies and wash at least some of the blood off before he catches up to Hovat and Kamaria. He is expecting to arrive to an empty house. What he does not expect, however, is a shattering scream to tear through him half way home.

 

He expects, least of all, for it to be the scream of his wife.

 

He goes from trudging to flat out sprinting in the direction of the sound, boots nearly slipping on the mud and corpses multiple times. When he skids to a halt, though, nothing that his mind could have conjured could hold a candle to the nightmare before him now.

 

Hovat is lying on the ground, her own knife having gone straight through her skull as the rest of her lays mangled, twisted and torn, pale blue blood seeping into the grass stalks around them, her one eye that is left is filled with unshed tears and it gazes on, unseeing. And then he sees his daughter, his brave and darling Kamaria being held up by her neck, her twisted legs no longer able to support her as evident by the alabaster bone jutting out from them. Yet, despite the excruciating pain, she kicks at Ronan, she claws at his wrists with her tiny hands and tiny nails yet no blood is drawn despite her efforts.

 

Yet in spite of all that he is seeing, in spite of all the terror and sorrow and _**rage** _ , Drax stands there, eyes wide and mute as he watches his family get torn apart. Ronan finally seems to notice him, and he notices the fact that he is stood like a deer in the headlights too. And he grins, his grip waning on Kamaria's neck as he catches her by her shoulder and lifts her up by that instead, enough for her to breathe a choked out “Daddy...” looking at him with expectant and fear filled eyes.

 

This spurs Drax into action. A scream rips itself from his throat as he sprints towards them, both of his blades drawn. And Ronan's grin grows more feral as he brings his other hand up, pressing into her sternum more and more until there is a resounding crack, grabbing a hold of the rest of her, one on each side, her lips moving and jaw wagging furiously, trying to make a sound but unable to as she chokes out her own blood. And he grabs a side of each of her and-

 

 

 

 

**_CRACK_ **

 

 

 

 

And he laughs as he tears her apart.

 

 

 

 

And Drax sees red.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Ronan is gone and he lies on the ground, battered and utterly beaten, he can't even bring himself to hold his family's cold, dead hands. Instead, he lies in the mud as it rains, and weeps.

 

* * *

 

 

Drax wishes many things. He wishes he slayed Ronan where he stood, he wishes he could have saved his family, could have reassured Kamaria and wiped away her tears and hushed her silent cries, wishes that that day had never happened. But, to him at least, these wishes do not ever come true. And every time he wakes with salty tears streaked down his cheeks, knowing that his wishes would never come true, _could never_ come true, his resolve for getting from one day to another slowly crumbles.

 

So he loses himself, in drinking, in gambling, in _destroying_. The first time he kills an innocent they aren't technically so, a minor criminal cheating in a game of cards. But then, in the midst of bloodshed, he is able to lose himself. So he does it again. And again. And again. Before he knows it, Drax already has himself a reputation: _Drax the destroyer._ Not Drax the man who couldn't save his family, not Drax the man who drowns himself in liquor to avoid his sorrows. No, a destroyer. So he loses himself in that title as well. He knows Hovat would be ashamed of him. That doesn't make him stop, though. The dead can't think. Yet the very thought still makes him feel guilty and he abstains from drinking for that night.

 

Unsurprisingly, his reputation eventually gets the best of him as he is surrounded by Nova corps, strong but growing weary as they stun him with their guns as he sorely regrets going to the bazaar to get another knife.

 

As if attributed to the dangerous connotations of his title, Drax is sent to the Kyln with no measurable amount of disdain on his part. However, after the first five attempts of trying to break himself out using purely brute strength, Drax's determination stumbles. Instead of losing himself in bar brawls and alcohol, he is solitary at night whilst others around him sleep, and the guilt, shame and sorrow all build up during the night where there is not a ghost of a touch of comfort and he must face his demons. And, running once more in a way that he refuses to admit, he focuses his energy on getting to Ronan, on destroying Ronan and then Thanos. And then... then he will find something else to destroy, though he knows, knows in the deep recesses of his mind, that the final thing he shall destroy will be himself.

 

His opportunity presents itself in the form of a Zen-Whoberis woman as he is contemplating the texture of the metal table, thoroughly wishing instead that it was familiar soil that was slipping through his fingers. He still tends to wish things, despite their futility, and it is a habit he wishes himself to be rid of. Gamora, a hound of Thanos, no doubt. Anyone who works with Thanos works with Ronan, surely. He squints as she walks past and takes on the jeers, insults and any other projectiles thrown her way as she is followed by a tree, a furry mammal and possibly some kind of Xandrian.

 

He waits until programmed night falls and watches passively as she is dragged out of the sleeping quarters by a gaggle of men, a knife against her throat. He follows silently and waits until they reach the showers, the promises of pain reaching his ears. He wonders, for a brief moment, if his family would be happy to see him again, as he is now, before shaking the thought away. These thoughts would only remind him of his past self, of the one who failed to protect his family. And, not for the first time and not quite the last in his life, Drax thinks and truly believes he has nothing left to lose.

 

 

Mind made up, he walks into the room.

 

 

And he is met by the terrified gaze of Gamora.

 

 

And he sees red once more.

 


End file.
